


Hunting Ghosts

by fangirl_squee



Category: Dollhouse, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:27:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl_squee/pseuds/fangirl_squee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FBI Special Agent Enjolras is put onto the Dollhouse case after he arrests a senator's son. It all feels a bit ridiculous, chasing down an urban legend, until Cosette Pontmercy comes forward on behalf of her missing birth mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jexellan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jexellan/gifts).



> Yes, I know, ANOTHER series, but this is Janelle's fault. Prior knowledge of both fandoms would probably be a good idea, but Wikipedia has a good enough explanation of how things work if you haven’t.

Bahorel didn’t mean to end up with a job like this, honestly, he really didn’t. He used to work for a private security firm, and he was perfectly happy to stand around threateningly and occasionally knock some heads together. Unfortunately, private security isn’t immune to the world’s financial state and when the company downsized its staff, he got fired.

 

They liked him there though, so they recommended him for another position. Bahorel isn’t quite sure what it says about him that he seems well suited for work as a Dollhouse handler.

 

He knows he got pretty lucky with his active though. Romeo, or ‘R’ as he asked Bahorel to call him, has a pretty good sense of humour for a Doll. The first engagements were all pretty low key affairs –high-class dates, that sort of thing. His latest engagement is also pretty easy going, if a little boring. R’s a sleeper active this time around, and Bahorel was warned that he could be activated remotely at any moment. What they didn’t tell him is that the time between now and that moment could be weeks, even months. That’s a lot of time to be sitting around, staring at monitors.

 

Actives and handlers aren’t supposed to have much social contact, especially in the field, but for a long-term engagement like this there’s a little more leeway. After all, it looks much less conspicuous for R to get into a friend’s car than some anonymous black van.

 

Plus, it means Bahorel can get updated without having to go through Topher. It’s not that he doesn’t _like_ the guy, but Topher seems to enjoy dangling information over handler’s heads. Bahorel doesn’t really blame him; most handlers are the kind of guys who would have beat up Topher on the playground. Just because he gets it, that doesn’t mean he has to like it. So Bahorel takes R out to a bar, usually the night after he’s gone in for treatment.

 

This imprint’s a drinker, and something about his sense of humour reminds Bahorel of R’s Doll state. It’s sharper, louder than when he’s been wiped, but the look in R’s eye when he gets to the punchline is the same. He mentions it to Topher, who just shrugs.

 

“For long term sleeper agents like this we use part of the brain scan they came in with,” he says, eyes flicking over codes on the screen, “it’s not the full original, but using bit and pieces lets me slip my own sleeping genius in there better. Has there been a problem?”

 

“No, no problems.”

 

It does make Bahorel wonder how much the Dolls really remember, if they’re really as empty as they’re supposed to be.

 

Traffic’s insane on the way back from the bar, some sort of street festival blocking off R’s neighbourhood. R has the taxi drop him off a block out, stumbling out of the cab.

 

“You sure?” says Bahorel.

 

“Sure, I’m sure,” says R, “don’t you trust me?”

 

“With my life,” says Bahorel. He laughs at his own joke.

 

R waves cheerfully from the sidewalk and Bahorel heads back to his own pay-by-the-week apartment, to stare at the monitors for a while until he goes to bed.

 

 

Enjolras’ new assignment is a joke. It’s worse than a joke; it’s a punishment for messing up his last assignment. Oh, Enjolras had caught the guy, but since he was a senator’s son, he got off basically scot free, while Enjolras was sent to chase urban legends.

 

The Dollhouse.

 

It’s a tale on level with alligators in the sewer, and just as likely to be real. Young men and women, signing themselves away to be used as vessels of fantasy to the highest bidders, all hidden in an underground facility. Everyone has heard from a friend of a friend that their cousin’s friend knows a guy who when to high school with a guy who _totally disappeared because of the Dollhouse, like, for real_.

 

Enjolras believes in a lot of things. Justice for those who had been wronged, or that all human beings have the right to be free, for example. But he finds it difficult to believe the Dollhouse can even exist. And yet, here he is, 6:45pm on a Friday night, interviewing “witnesses”.

 

The last woman had talked for twenty minutes about her missing daughter. Very sad, but Enjolras is 90% certain the girl has just run off the Vegas with her boyfriend for the weekend. He gives her the number of a cop he knows out that way, and manages to get her out of his office.

 

“Please tell me that’s the last of them,” he says to Combeferre.

 

He and Combeferre had graduated from the academy in the same year, and got transferred to the LA office together. Combeferre said it was obviously a sign from the universe that they should be friends. Enjolras said he didn’t believe in signs, he believed in _facts_ , but he’s had lunch with Combeferre every day from then on. Although Combeferre isn’t assigned to the Dollhouse case, he still stops by, helping Enjolras poke through files.

 

“Two more. They’re a couple though, so after them you’re done,” says Combeferre, “Mr and Mrs Pontmercy.”

 

Enjolras scrubs his hand over his face. “Send them in then.”

 

Combeferre ushers the couple in. They’re younger than he expected, closer to his own age, and they look a great deal more well-off than the other people he’s been dealing with all day.

 

He reaches across his desk to shake their hands. “Hello, I’m Special Agent Michael Enjolras. How can I help you?”

 

“My name is Cosette, and this is my husband Marius. We need you help to find someone, I think, _we_ think that she may be in the Dollhouse,” says the woman, Cosette.

 

She hands him a photograph, dog-eared and crinkled from being folded in half. A woman in her late twenties smiles back at him.

 

“This is Fantine, my birth mother. She put me up for adoption after I was born, but I only started looking for her after we got engaged,” says Cosette. Marius smiles across at her, encouraging. “That was four years ago. There was a normal trail - medical records, rental history, bank accounts, that sort of thing, but right after I was born everything stops.”

 

“A private investigator might be better in this case Mrs Pontmercy, the bureau –“

 

“We’ve _tried_ private investigators, and the only thing they managed to dig up for a one-way ticket to LA. We need someone with better resources. The FBI has those resources.”

 

“What makes you think she’s involved with the Dollhouse?” Enjolras is curious now. Cosette might seem desperate, but she doesn’t seem like the type to buy into urban legends.

 

Cosette reaches into her handbag, pulling out some loose papers. “When my father adopted me he received a letter in the mail from Fantine, although with a cheque for a substantial amount of money. The letter said that he would receive a cheque every month to help with my expenses, which he did, but that Fantine would be uncontactable.”

 

“This is all very interesting Mrs Pontmercy,” says Enjolras, “but how exactly does this relate to the Dollhouse?”

 

Cosette scowls at him, but Marius interrupts before she can say whatever it is that’s on her mind. “The cheques weren’t from Fantine. All the funds come from the Rossum Corporation, after the money was transferred through several smaller companies. Rossum has been developing the kind of technology that could, in theory, match up to the technology people say the Dollhouse has.”

 

Enjolras looked over the papers, eyes skimming down Fantine’s letter. She was incredibly specific about the money and the time frame, as well as giving a quick medical history “in case the need should ever arise for you to have it”. The end of the letter simply read “I am very sorry, but you won’t be able to contact me for some time, given the nature of my work”. A little strange, yes, but hardly enough for a warrant.

 

Enjolras frowns. “I’m sorry, but this is hardly conclusive.”

 

“Please, just look over the files. If you really think there’s no connection, then none of us are going to be any worse for it,” says Cosette.

 

“I’ll be sure to contact you if anything comes up,” says Enjolras.

 

Combeferre holds the door open for them as they leave, and shuts it behind them. “The cafeteria’s closed, but there’s a pretty good Thai place a couple of blocks away.”

 

Enjolras is still frowning down at the papers in his hands. “You go ahead. I’m just going to look through these for a bit.”

 

Combeferre blinks in surprise, and the corners of his mouth twitch. “Beginning to believe in the Dollhouse?”

 

Enjolras huffs a laughs. “Still no. But if this woman is missing, I can at least try to do something to help _somebody_ while I’m stuck on this case.”

 

Combeferre hovers by the door. “Do you want a hand?”

 

Enjolras leans back in his chair, looking over the transaction records Cosette has given him. “No, you go ahead. I’m just going to run a few traces, see if I can turn up something.”

 

“Don’t stay up too late,” says Combeferre says on his way out.

 

Enjolras smiles.

 

 

Four hours later, he’s not smiling any more. The figures do seem to lead back to the Rossum Corporation, but there’s no record of Fantine working for them or any of their subsidiaries, in any capacity. There’s no reason that they should be paying this much, this regularly, to a woman who doesn’t exist. Cosette wasn’t exaggerating when she said Fantine had disappeared. She appeared in bank accounts, rental histories, medical charts, and a few police reports, and then … nothing. No death certificate, no missing person’s reports, just a one-way ticket to LA.

 

Enjolras downs the last of his coffee, and makes a face at the cold, gritty sensation. He needs to make calls to get to the bottom of this, and there’s no way anyone’s going to pick up the phone now. He may as well go home.

 

Friday night traffic may not be a bad as morning rush hour, but Enjolras has road rage under the best of circumstances. On top of that, he has to park almost a block away from his apartment because of some ridiculous street festival, so he’s in a pretty bad mood be the time the steps to his apartment building come into view. Someone stumbles into him from behind, and they both end up face first on the pavement.

 

“Hey! Sorry, sorry,” slurs the guy. He sits up, swaying slightly, obviously drunk even if Enjolras couldn’t smell the beer on his breath.

 

“It’s fine,” says Enjolras, picking up the scattered pages. He offers the guy a hand up without really thinking about it.

 

“Thank you …?”

 

“Enjolras.”

 

The man grins, taking the hand. “Thank you, _Enjolras_. I’m Grantaire. Where are you headed in such a hurry?”

 

Enjolras might not be working within a time frame right now, but that does not mean he has time to play drunken twenty questions. “Home.”

 

“What a coincidence! I was just heading home too. I live just up there,” says Grantaire, gesturing to Enjolras’ apartment building.

 

It’s times like this that Enjolras almost believes that the universe does indeed have a will of its own, and that it uses that will to show him how much it hates him.

 

“Me too,” he says, because this guy is obviously going to see him there at some point.

 

“Great! We can walk together, it’ll be very neighbourly of us,” says Grantaire.

 

Grantaire keeps stumbling into him, and Enjolras basically has to drag him the last part of the way, into the elevator.

 

“What floor are you?”

 

Grantaire leans on him heavily. “Fifth, thanks.”

 

Also the same as Enjolras.

 

“So,” says Enjolras, breaking to quiet, “did you just move in? I haven’t seen you around before.”

 

“Yeah, just a couple of weeks ago, but I’ve been in LA a while now. This place is much nicer than my old place though. How long have you been here?”

 

“A couple of years. I moved here for work.”

 

“Work huh? What do you do?” Grantaire punctuates his sentences by poking Enjolras in the shoulder.

 

“I’m with the FBI, a special agent.”

 

“Whoa,” breathes Grantaire.

 

“It’s really not that impressive,” says Enjolras.

 

“It really is that impressive,” says Grantaire.

 

The elevator jolts to a stop and the doors squeak a little as they roll back.

 

“I’m that one,” says Grantaire, jabbing his finger towards the end of the hall.

 

They are literally right across the hall from each other. Enjolras doesn’t know how to feel about that. Grantaire fumbles a little with his key before he gets it in the lock. Enjolras gets a glimpse of a stack of canvases against a couch behind Grantaire.

 

“Thanks again, Enjolras, I think I can take it from here. It was good to meet you, neighbour.”

 

“I’m sure I’ll see you later,” says Enjolras.

 

As he reheats some leftover Chinese food, Enjolras thinks that his conversation with Grantaire is probably the longest non-work-related conversation he’s had since he moved in. And he didn’t even entirely mind it.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> R shows a remarkably good memory for a Doll, and Bahorel isn't sure if that's a good thing or not.

For long-term engagements, Actives are required to have weekly check-ups with Dr Saunders and Topher. What that means in reality is that Bahorel spends all day filling in paperwork while R gets a physical, a massage, and then goes to art class.

 

R is sitting at one of the tables, kicking his legs a little as he draws. Bahorel sits down next to him, and R smiles up at him.

 

“Hello R,” says Bahorel, “what are you drawing?”

 

“An angel,” says R, holding up the paper so that Bahorel can see.

 

It’s a picture of Agent Enjolras. It’s childish certainly, lines thick and slightly wobbly, but it is unmistakably Enjolras, complete with golden hair and a large frown.

 

“An angel huh?” says Bahorel.

 

“Yeah, I think … I think I had a dream about him?” says R, frowning a little.

 

“Well, I’m sure it was a good dream,” says Bahorel. He’s still not worried enough to mention this to anyone else. After all, he doesn’t want R sent to the attic just because his brain was a little more attached to his memories than it’s supposed to be. As long as it’s not causing problems with the engagement, it’s not worth reporting.

 

R has a slight frown, but it clears when he looks down at the drawing. He runs a finger along the yellow curls. “A good dream.”

 

“Are you ready for your treatment now?” asks Bahorel.

 

“A treatment would be nice,” says R.

 

R puts the drawing down on the table and follows Bahorel up the stairs. Mr Dominic is waiting at the top, glaring as usual. Bahorel nods to him, forcefully cheerful. This makes Mr Dominic’s scowl deepen, but then again, that is Bahorel’s intension. Annoying Mr Dominic is something of a hobby, and the fact that R copies Bahorel in this is even better.

 

R grins at Mr Dominic, a lot brighter than his usual Doll’s smile.  “Hello, I’m going for a treatment.”

 

“Off to become a real person, excellent,” says Mr Dominic. His tone matches his scowl.

 

R’s brow furrows. “A real person?”

 

“Come on R,” says Bahorel, leading him towards Topher’s office.

 

“Am I not a real person?” asks R.

 

Bahorel’s never sure what to say when R asks these sorts of questions. “It’s complicated. You’re real enough, but in a little while you’ll become someone else.”

 

“Are they more real than me?”

 

“No, you’re both equally real,” says Bahorel.

 

“Hello R,” says Topher.

 

R smiles blandly at Topher. “I’m here for my treatment.”

 

 

After the night he helps Grantaire home, Enjolras takes more notice when he sees him around the apartment building. Enjolras is honestly not sure if he ever saw Grantaire before that night, when he get home from work he tends to just head straight to bed. Now it feels as though Grantaire is everywhere, chattering to Enjolras as he does his laundry or checks his mail.

 

Enjolras finds out that Grantaire is an artist, who bartends at a variety of places Enjolras has never heard of. It’s mostly night work, so Grantaire often arrives back at the apartment building around the same time as Enjolras is leaving for work.

 

After a few weeks of five minute hallway conversations, Grantaire knocks on his door with takeout and a ridiculous excuse.

 

“The guy gave me extra for some reason; I guess there was some kind of mix up? I would have felt bad making him go back, you should have seen the kid’s face. Anyway, have you eaten? I mean, no point letting it go to waste, right?”

 

Enjolras never knows what to talk about in these situations and he’s terrible at small talk, so in the end he talks about his work. It’s not like the Dollhouse case is imperative to national security, and he’s still had no luck finding Fantine. Some fresh eyes might even help.

 

“So you followed some money from one fund to another until it went somewhere suspicious? Your job is not as glamorous as the movies have led me to believe,” says Grantaire.

 

“I did tell you it wasn’t that impressive,” says Enjolras, “especially in this case, where they essentially have me trying to prove an urban legend.” He might still be a little bitter.

 

Grantaire gestures with his chopsticks as he talks. “I don’t know why they even need you on it. I mean, say it is real: in exchange for doing a bunch of stuff you won’t remember, with no consequences, the Dollhouse gives you a huge amount of money? That doesn’t sound so bad.”

 

“Doesn’t sound – Grantaire! How can you even say something like that?” Enjolras might not believe it’s true, but the concept still horrifies him. “Imagine everything you are, all your memories and quirks and everything that makes you _you_. And now imagine that that’s just _gone_. Taken by some company, whenever they feel like.”

 

“Well, sure, when you put it like _that_ ,” says Grantaire. “So what happens to, you know, the original selves?”

 

Enjolras sighs. “Who knows? Maybe they just have a big cupboard to store the real people in while they use their bodies for their own gains.”

 

“You mean where they store original selves.” Enjolras gives him a confused look, so Grantaire elaborates, gesturing with his chopstick as he does so. “Well they’re all real, aren’t they? That’s kind of the whole point of it, that’s what people are paying for. I mean, these people who signed up to be vessels or whatever, they get new personalities put into them, right? It might not be the personality they came in with, but the new personality would have their own memories and quirks. The new personality has to be just as real as the original one, otherwise you’d be able to tell it was a fake. Therefore, they’re equally real.”

 

 

Bahorel, watching the monitor feed from his apartment, chokes a little on his beer. He watches Enjolras and Grantaire argue back and forth, and wonders how much mental recall Actives have to show before they get sent to the attic on principal.


	3. Chapter Three

Enjolras keeps chasing the money trail, and it still seems to lead back to the Rossum Corporation. In fact, there’s a lot of money from government officials and CEOs that lead back to Rossum. Even if the Dollhouse isn’t real, there is definitely something underhanded going on. The frustrating part is that he can’t prove it.

 

He doesn’t get much of a chance to talk it over with Combeferre outside of work, apparently Combeferre’s case against some drug cartel or another is moving forward more rapidly than he’d thought it would (not that Enjolras is jealous, justice is justice). What this means is Enjolras ends up talking things over with Grantaire instead. He likes to have someone to bounce ideas off of and although Grantaire seems to enjoying arguing over every little point in the case, it does help Enjolras to feel slightly less frustrated by the whole process.

 

It’s weeks before there’s a break in the case. After Enjolras has called what feels like every taxi company in the state, someone _finally_ calls back.

 

“We don’t have the records on the computer back that far,” says the rasping voice on the phone, in between what sounds like deep drags of a cigarette, “but yer welcome to come look through the files we got.”

 

Enjolras writes the address down. It’s not actually too far; he could make headway on this case _today_. He shoves everything in his bag and hurries out of the office, texting Combeferre some quick details.

 

“Be careful,” says Combeferre, as Enjolras passes his desk.

 

“Aren’t I always?” says Enjolras.

 

Combeferre looks at him over the tops of his glasses. “No.”

 

“It’s just looking through old files,” says Enjolras, “it couldn’t be simpler.”

 

Obviously, it turns out to be a set up.

 

It doesn’t turn out as bad as it could have, shots are fired but only one scrapes his side. He’s restless in the hospital, and Combeferre can’t pick him up until he finishes work. Enjolras wishes he’d been able to bring the files in with him instead of leaving them at the front desk. He hates just lying around, doing nothing.

 

“Hey there neighbour.” It’s Grantaire, holding one of those ridiculous oversized Get Well cards.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

“Some FBI dude came by your apartment this morning, Special Agent Combeferre? He had a spare key, and he got you some clean clothes and stuff, told me about your, ah, on the job accident,” says Grantaire, his eyes going to the bulge of the bandage on Enjolras’ side.

 

“And you thought you’d just come down and see me?” It comes out harsher than Enjolras had intended. Enjolras doesn’t mind Grantaire’s company, and he _definitely_ doesn’t mind having a distraction from the mindlessness of the hospital. “Not that I don’t mind the company, but really, I’m fine. You didn’t have to come down.”

 

Grantaire looks away, fiddling with the card in his hands. “I was worried about you. It seemed like, you know, the neighbourly thing to do.”

 

Grantaire ends up sitting with him until Combeferre arrives to drive him home. They talk through the case (Enjolras maintains a set-up is a positive thing, it means he’s getting somewhere even if it doesn’t feel like it), and Grantaire’s latest commission (a mural at a private health clinic, of the ocean. “It’s supposed to sooth the patients as they sign away huge sums of money,” says Grantaire). Enjolras, to his own surprise, quite enjoys Grantaire’s visit.

 

Combeferre gives Enjolras an odd look when he sees Grantaire. “I didn’t know you were expecting other visitors.”

 

“This is my neighbour, Grantaire. Apparently your visit this morning had him quite concerned about me,” says Enjolras.

 

“Well, it’s not every day that someone you know gets shot,” says Grantaire.

 

Combeferre gets a call on the way to Enjolras’ apartment asking him to come back in, so he drops on the footpath before tearing away. The pain medication the doctor gave him before he left the hospital makes him feel a little light-headed. Grantaire helps him up the front steps, even though Enjolras tells him that he is _perfectly capable_ of getting to his apartment himself.

 

He can feel Grantaire’s chuckle through his side. “Just because you _can_ do something by yourself, doesn’t mean you should _have_ to.”

 

Well. There’s not really anything Enjolras can say to that (and he has _absolutely no idea_ what to do with the way Grantaire is looking at him right now, from under his lashes). Grantaire eases Enjolras onto the couch, and heads behind him to the kitchen.

 

“So, since you’re an invalid now –“

 

“I am not -!” says Enjolras.

 

Grantaire laughs. “I’ll make you dinner. How do you feel about French toast?”

 

“For dinner?”

 

Enjolras turns slightly on the couch, and he can see that Grantaire’s grinning. “It’s the only thing I can cook.”

 

His good mood is infectious, and Enjolras smiles back. “We can always get take out you know,” says Enjolras.

 

“I guess I can always make you my fantastic French toast another time,” says Grantaire. He flops down on Enjolras’ uninjured side. “So what do you want?”

 

Enjolras is momentarily distracted by the warmth of Grantaire’s side, the shape his mouth makes when he talks. It’s not a new development, but he notices it more with the medicine in his system, making hard to focus. “What?”

 

Grantaire has never had a very good concept of Enjolras’ personal space. “I said, what do you want? For dinner?”

 

“Whatever you want is fine,” says Enjolras.

 

Grantaire stretches for the phone, before settling back against Enjolras to make the call. “Indian okay?”

 

Enjolras nods, and he feels so tired from that _stupid_ medication, and Grantaire is so warm where Enjolras is leaning against him, and he’s just going to close his eyes for a second –

 

When he opens his eyes again it’s a lot darker, and he’s lying in bed. “Grantaire?”

 

Grantaire pokes his head through the doorway. “Hey, you’re up! I hope you don’t mind me hanging out, I mean, I already ordered the food before I noticed you were asleep, so.”

 

“No, it’s okay,” says Enjolras. He still has the warm, sleepy feeling from earlier, “have you eaten?”

 

Grantaire sits next to him on the bed. “No, I was waiting for you.” He eyes go again to Enjolras’ side, to the bump where the bandage is. He swallows, and Enjolras’ eyes follow his adam’s apple. “I really was worried, you know, when Combeferre told me you were in the hospital. I just kept thinking, what if you died, and I never – I mean, I wanted to …” He trails off with a frustrated noise.

 

Enjolras lays a hand on top of Grantaire’s. “It wasn’t serious. I’m sorry if Combeferre worried you.”

 

Grantaire makes a face. “Well, I _was_ worried, I mean, it sounds like this case is getting serious.”

 

“I can’t let go of this just because a _graze_ ,” says Enjolras, “what happened today, that means I’m closer than I thought. It’s a sign that I’m following this in the right direction, I can’t just _stop._ ”

 

“I don’t want you to stop,” says Grantaire.

 

“What?” Enjolras looks at him in surprise, but Grantaire is staring at the bed sheets, frowning.

 

(Two blocks away, Bahorel grabs his keys and bolts out the door because _Grantaire is breaking his engagement shit shit shit he is so fired over this_ , _this is the opposite of what this imprint is supposed to do_.)

 

“If you stopped, you wouldn’t be _you_ ,” says Grantaire, “and I – I’m quite fond of you as you are.”

 

Enjolras isn’t good with people, that’s just a fact. He’s never really minded, Combeferre is possibly the first person he’s ever met that he’s _wanted_ to interact with on a daily basis. He’s never had anyone be _fond_ of him. It makes something warm uncurl in his chest. “That’s … thank you. I’m quite fond of you too.”

 

He doesn’t expect Grantaire to kiss him. It’s chaste, but Enjolras pushes back at him almost on instinct, deepening the kiss. They don’t stop until they’re both breathless.

 

“Oh,” says Grantaire. He brings a hand up to touch his lips, which are bitten red. His pupils are blown wide.

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything. He puts a hand on the back on Grantaire’s neck, pulling him down again, then gasps, one hand going to the bandage at his side.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“No, it’s fine. Can you get my pain medication from the other room?” Grantaire looks ridiculously worried, so he adds, “I’m _fine_ Grantaire. It’s probably time for another dose anyway.”

 

He can hear Grantaire in the kitchen, getting him a glass of water, and Enjolras smiles. He touches his own lips, which are slightly swollen.

 

There’s a knock at the door, and he can hear the creek of it opening. The voice at the door is one he knows. Bahorel. “Hey Grantaire, are you ready for your treatment?”

 

“Sure,” says Grantaire, “a treatment sounds great. I’ll be right out.”

 

It takes a few seconds for Grantaire and Bahorel’s call-and-response words to register with Enjolras. Enjolras has heard witnesses describe great shocks before, how they thought for a moment their heart had stopped. He’d transcribed their words perfectly, but he’d always felt that ‘heart stopping’ was an exaggeration. He knows, in that moment, that it’s not.

 

“Hey, Enjolras?” says Grantaire, sets the water down next to him, “I’m really sorry, but I forgot I had a thing. Can I rain check on, uh, this?”

 

“Sure,” says Enjolras. It’s only thanks to years of academy training that he’s able to keep his voice steady.

 

Grantaire drops a kiss on the top of Enjolras’ head. “I’ll come by tomorrow?”

 

“Sure,” says Enjolras again.

 

He feels like he can’t breathe properly until Grantaire shuts the front door.


	4. Chapter 4

“You know, I was kind of having a serious moment back there,” says Grantaire.

 

“Sorry, but you know treatments,” says Bahorel.

 

Grantaire shrugs and Bahorel breathes an inner sigh of relief. Breaking mission parameters was bad enough; Bahorel wasn’t sure what he’d do if Grantaire broke programming on this too. God, Bahorel really hoped they wouldn’t send R to the attic for this. Surely this was just some weird programming error, not a mental malfunction.

 

They’re both silent as they ride the elevator up, lost in thought. When the doors open, Topher is grinning his things-are-going-terribly-and-Dominic-won’t-stop-threatening-me panicked grin, which isn’t a great sign. The fact that Ms DeWitt and Dominic are standing either side of the imprint chair also isn’t a good sign.

 

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “Can we just do this really quick so I can get back? I mean, Enjolras probably went back to sleep, but the doctor said someone should check on him.”

 

“Sure,” said Topher, voice cracking slightly, “just hop on in and we’ll get this done lickety-split!”

 

Grantaire’s body jerks slightly as the chair goes on, blue-white light illuminating his skin. Bahorel doesn’t look at his expression and the chair wipes him clean.

 

Dominic crowds up, getting in Bahorel’s personal space in a way that would probably be more intimidating if Bahorel wasn’t slightly taller than him. “What the hell happened with your doll?”

 

Bahorel folds his arms. “I didn’t do anything, and I got R out as soon as I noticed a problem. I followed protocol here, it’s not my fault the imprint didn’t work.”

 

Topher made a high pitched noise. “It didn’t _not_ work! My imprints don’t just _not work_!”

 

“Well clearly there has been some sort of malfunction,” said Ms DeWitt coolly, “which you will find as soon as possible and then report back to me.”

 

She turns and leaves, patent heels making no noise on the carpeted floor. Dominic glares at Topher before he follows her out. Bahorel rolls his eyes. Dominic isn’t nearly as intimidating as he thinks he is.

 

“Thanks for throwing me under the bus,” says Topher, hands flying over the keys as brain scans and codes flick across the screen, “I thought we were pals! Compatriots! Brothers-in-arms against the Dominic menace!”

 

Bahorel laughs. “I’m still not going to take the blame if it’s not my fault.”

 

Topher glances at him before going back to the code on-screen. “R really gave no indication he was about to go off-assignment?”

 

Bahorel shakes his head. “None. Everything was going pretty much exactly how you said it would, but when Enjolras asked him if he should let go of the case, Grantaire said something about that not being true to himself? Something like that.”

 

Topher stops moving, hands hovering over the keyboard. “Wait, wait, wait. What were the exact words? Never mind, I have the recording, don’t need to rely on faulty human memories! No offence.”

 

“None taken,” says Bahorel.

 

Topher fast-forwards through the recording in Enjolras’ apartment.

 

 _“If you stopped, you wouldn’t be_ _you_ _,”_ says the recording of Grantaire, _“and I – I’m quite fond of you as you are.”_

 

“No way,” says Topher, “No. Way.”

 

“What?” says Bahorel.

 

Topher scrolls through screens of coding, fingers tapping at the keys. “Okay, so Grantaire is supposed to fall in love with the lovely-but-aloof Agent Enjolras, right? Grantaire falls in love with him, Enjolras falls in love right back, Grantaire makes him choose, he chooses Grantaire, everybody lives happily ever after, right? With me so far?”

 

“Yes,” says Bahorel, slightly uncertain about where this is going.

 

“But Grantaire didn’t make him choose. I mean, Enjolras asked him specifically, that’s a great opening for the programming to kick in _right there_ and it just,” Topher waves a hand, “didn’t.”

 

“Maybe your programing is just wrong,” says Bahorel.

 

“Excuse _you_ ,” says Topher, “my programming is not wrong. I just, well, miscalculated the amount of love needed. My problem here is loving _too much_.”

 

“Does this mean I should be getting Ms DeWitt right now?” says Bahorel.

 

Topher waves a hand, shooing him out. “Not just yet, there are still tests to be done. I don’t want to go to DeWitt without data to back this up.”

 

The chair pulses, moving back to its ‘off’ position. Bahorel approaches the chair and R blinks awake.

 

R smiles blandly at them both. “Did I fall asleep?”

 

“For a little while,” says Bahorel. “R, would you like to go see Dr Saunders? It’s time for a check up.”

 

“I like Dr Saunders,” says R, hoping down and following Bahorel downstairs, “she’s nice.”

 

“Yes, she is,” says Bahorel.

 

 

Enjolras listens to Grantaire and Bahorel thump down the hallway before he gets up, feeling as though he’s in a daze. He makes it all the way to the lounge and has his phone in hand before it occurs to him that calling Combeferre might not be the best idea. He trusts Combeferre enough, but he doesn’t trust that the phones are bug-free.

 

It takes Enjolras hours to sweep the apartment for bugs, and he finds nothing. However, in his experience, that doesn’t mean that there are no bugs, it only means that he hasn’t found them yet. Enjolras makes a mental list of the other places he’ll have to check – his office, Combeferre’s office, his car …

 

He tries not to think about Grantaire’s apartment across the hall. There’s been no sound from the hallway since he left with Bahorel. He also tries hard not think about the fact that Grantaire and Bahorel were probably in the Dollhouse _right now_ , because apparently Grantaire is a Doll.

 

 _Grantaire_ is a _Doll_.

 

Enjolras sits heavily down on the couch, looking at his dismantled phone. He sits there, feeling an odd clench in his chest as he stares blankly at the tiny circuitry, trying to keep those thoughts out of his head.

 

 

Bahorel crosses his arms over his chest, waiting for Topher to explain his findings. It had taken Topher half an hour to get enough information together for Ms DeWitt, and she and Dominic stood across from him, waiting.

 

“Okay, so, the problem isn’t that my programing was _bad_ , the problem is that the human mind is more complex than we can ever comprehend,” says Topher.

 

Dominic makes a derisive noise, but thankfully says nothing.

 

Ms DeWitt arches an eyebrow. “I believe we will need more explanation than that.”

 

Topher taps a few keys, bringing up a scan of the Grantaire imprint. “This imprint has two functions: _one_ , fall in love with Enjolras, and _two_ convince Enjolras to leave the Dollhouse alone. When I made this imprint I obviously made the leave-the-Dollhouse-alone function stronger, but,” he sighs dramatically, “I failed to take into account the wonder that is the human mind.”

 

“The _point_ ,” says Mr Dominic.

 

“That is the point Dominic!” Topher gestures at the screen, hand twitching. “R’s mind fought against the programming after he met Enjolras. His love for Enjolras overtook the prime directive.”

 

“Could this happen with other imprints?” asks Ms DeWitt.

 

“I … don’t think so? I mean, the Grantaire imprint is very specifically geared towards Enjolras,” says Topher, “our usual romantic imprints aren’t usually this strong. I’ll run a diagnostic on a few other sleeper actives.”

 

“See that you do,” says Ms DeWitt.

 

“Not to interrupt science time,” says Bahorel, “but what are we going to do with R? I mean, I’m pretty sure Agent Enjolras knows something’s up by now, he’s not a moron.”

 

“We’ll keep R in play for now,” says Ms DeWitt.

 

“And if Enjolras follows him here?” asks Bahorel.

 

Ms DeWitt regards him with her usual level of coolness. “Then we will cross that bridge when we come to it, Mr Bahorel. Be sure to take care when you drop R back at his apartment tonight.”

 

 

A knock at the door jolts Enjolras awake. His side aches as he lifts himself up off the couch. When he checks the peep hole, it’s Grantaire.

 

Enjolras takes a deep breath, summoning his years of agency training and forcing a smile onto his face before he opens the door. “Hey, how was your thing?”

 

“Hey, you.” Grantaire smiles, wide and easy. It makes Enjolras feel vaguely nauseous. “It was fine, sorry I had to leave like that. How are you feeling?”

 

“A little sore,” says Enjolras, “and kind of still tired actually. I was just about to head to bed.”

 

“Oh, sorry to bother you,” says Grantaire.

 

He’s so sincerely sorry looking, so genuinely concerned, that Enjolras wants to shake him because _this isn’t who you really are._

 

Instead, he makes himself keep smiling at Grantaire. “No, that’s okay.” Someone told him once that the more truth you added to a lie, the easier it was to believe, so he adds, “It’s always good to see you.”

 

Grantaire looks at him for a long moment, then reaches forward to brush the hair out of Enjolras’ face. “Well I guess I’ll see you around then, neighbour.”

 

Enjolras chest aches a little at the gesture, and he forcibly reminds himself that this _isn’t real_. “I guess you will.”

 

Enjolras watches Grantaire go back into his apartment before he shuts his door. He takes some pain medication, waiting for it to kick in as he lies down on the couch, turning his dismantled phone over in his hand.

 

 _This Grantaire might not be real_ , his thinks, _but I’m going to find the one that is. I’m going to find him and I’m going to get him out of there._

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always loved: fangirl-squee.tumblr.com/ask


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